


the dog days (are over)

by jenna221b



Series: Good Omens Prompts [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (and happiness too of course!), 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Developing Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot Collection, One Word Prompts, POV Alternating, Snippets, Summer, Summer Omens, Summer Omens 2020, ep 3 cold open: summertime sadness remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 11,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25245445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: Crawly is about to tease him, saying how that doesn’t exactly sound like it came from Heaven’s Handbook, when Aziraphale looks at him with a start. “Oh,” he breathes. “You’ve caught the sun.”*Daily series of ficlets written for the Summer Omens 2020 prompts.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840228
Comments: 232
Kudos: 236





	1. Sand (4004 B.C.)

It is surprising how quick it all is. One moment, torrential rain, then a sunny, cloudless sky, as if the storm had never existed in the first place. But, Crawly’s skin still prickles uncomfortably, and he knows it’s not just from the heat. There’ll be another storm, that much is certain.

The angel—Aziraphale—tucks his wings out of view, and stretches. Crawly quickly steps away.

“So, that was rain,” he says.

“Indeed.”

And, alright, it’s not the most encouraging reply in the world, but it is a _reply_. “What’s your review? Marks out of ten?” Crawly asks.

Aziraphale hums, considering. “Well, I suppose… six. No, five and a half.”

Crawly blinks. “Hardly a raving endorsement, angel.”

“I’m not a fan of what it does to the sand,” Aziraphale explains. “Makes it awfully easy to stick in between one’s toes.”

Crawly looks down. The angel actually wiggles his toes by way of demonstration. “Thought your lot were supposed to love everything.”

Aziraphale gives a sanctimonious sniff. “Well, I can’t love everything to the same _degree_ , my dear fellow,” he says, as if were painfully obvious. “Otherwise I wouldn’t appreciate the truly magnificent things.”

Crawly is about to tease him, saying how that doesn’t exactly sound like it came from Heaven’s Handbook, when Aziraphale looks at him with a start. “Oh,” he breathes. “You’ve caught the sun.”

He keeps staring with an awfully curious expression on his face, like conflicted fascination. Crawly suspects the angel does not somehow know about his highly unauthorised (wickedly fun) cosmic game of catch.

Aziraphale gestures hesitantly. “Just there—your cheeks and your nose,” is all he says, as if Crawly is supposed to know what that means.

White wings unfurl into existence, one outstretching towards Crawly in invitation. It feels unreal. Once is a fluke, but twice… What is a demon to do with that?

“Shouldn’t you be… doing something else?” Crawly says, masking concern with scepticism.

Aziraphale sighs. “Not at the moment, I’m afraid.” He gives Crawly a rather pointed look. “Nothing left to guard. And, in any case…” He ruffles his feathers. “These will take a little time to dry.”

Crawly waits a moment longer. No storm comes. Still, the angel stands beside him. He shuffles closer, and steps into the blissfully cool shade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm so happy to be writing Good Omens stuff again! My fic for the Mini Bang (the beauty of thy peace) comes out on the 21st of July, but I also couldn't resist another series of prompts. I had so much fun writing the Anniversary themed ones in May-- I expect this will be much of the same: moments in time but summer-ish related! ;) Hope you have a lovely day/night <3


	2. Ice-cream (1967)

It’s the most ridiculous thing. They are both well-aware of what they are doing, but they never acknowledge it. They keep up the act with their overly broad smiles (“Fancy a jaunt to Brighton, angel?”) Aziraphale pretends that he cannot see how Crowley holds the steering wheel just a touch too tightly. He spends most of the journey furtively looking around the Bentley for the spectre of a tartan thermos.

_Where did you put it?_ he cannot ask. He almost prays that Crowley has dumped the whole wretched contents into the Thames. Almost.

They make a good go of it. Crowley rigs the carousel music to play one different note out of tune with every repetition. Aziraphale scoffs through his treacherously rapid heartbeat. It’s a foolish, absurd thing to think, but every time Crowley is out of sight, he worries he has—Gone.

So, Aziraphale wheedles until they are sharing one little tub of vanilla ice-cream. It’s an excellent excuse to keep Crowley right within his view. They pass the tub back and forth, and Aziraphale does not attempt to hide how his fingers linger over Crowley’s every time.

For once, Crowley eats the most. (Aziraphale has long suspected that he has a sweet tooth). Mid-spoonful, he grimaces, hissing through his teeth.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says. He instantly reaches across, brushing Crowley’s temple with his thumb. “Here.” As he takes Crowley’s pain, he feels it fleetingly: a needle-sharp, piercing cold. He sighs through it with only the slightest effort. “There.” He smiles.

Crowley looks at him. “You didn’t have to.”

Aziraphale tuts. “Don’t be silly.”

Crowley shrugs. “Was my own fault,” he says. Then, he chuckles, edging into something that is far too self-deprecating for Aziraphale’s liking. Like he’s admitting something much worse.

Aziraphale faintly wonders if he’s botched his miracle, because his lungs suddenly feel full of ice. “No,” he says firmly.

He says it much too loud; he knows he has. He’s broken the spell of their sunny afternoon.

Crowley’s lips thin. “No?” he whispers.

“No.” Aziraphale places his hand over Crowley’s, still wrapped around the tub. “I’d do it again,” he promises. “If I needed to.”

Crowley looks away, and nods. He doesn’t move his hand. He says nothing. And yet, Aziraphale hears it all the same: _once is enough_.


	3. Burn (41 A.D.)

Crowley notices it just after Aziraphale orders the oysters. It’s a little movement, but inescapable: the way Aziraphale reaches over, rubbing his own shoulder, a flicker of discomfort amongst his otherwise buoyant energy. So, Crowley peers closer through his glasses. He spies the redness of the skin, verging on peeling, just in view before Aziraphale’s toga covers the rest.

He does a little digging. Nothing obvious, simply enough open-ended questions until Aziraphale is complaining about a summons from a few days ago.

“Bureaucratic nonsense,” Aziraphale huffs. Crowley is certain he wouldn’t say anything of the sort if his tongue hadn’t already been loosened with wine from their initial toast. “Had me travelling to the middle of _nowhere_ to give a verbal report—and they just left me waiting. The entire day! I know they’ll have plenty of other things to be getting on with, but _really_.”

Crowley clicks his fingers, ensuring their drinks order remains waiting at the bar. So. It _had_ been deliberate. And embarrassingly underhand. The upstairs prats probably had their noses out of joint at Aziraphale actually enjoying himself on Earth.

Crowley does his best to hide his frown. There’s a flare of feeling in his stomach that he can’t name. It’s not right, he thinks, letting an angel burn.

“Oh, hold on,” Crowley says breezily. “They’ve forgotten our drinks. I’ll just…”

He stands up, and squeezes behind Aziraphale in his seat. He lets his fingertips graze across the angel’s shoulder for only a moment. It barely counts as a touch. Aziraphale shouldn’t notice it at all. He’ll most likely think being indoors has soothed his skin.

But, when Crowley returns, setting down their drinks with a soft clunk, Aziraphale is looking at him with wide eyes. His toga has been pulled down a little, almost entirely showing his healed shoulder. When Crowley passes him his drink, he quickly jerks the fabric up. Crowley sits down without a word.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, with an odd, lilting kind of tone.

“Hmm?” Crowley says, behind a swig of wine.

Aziraphale tilts his head. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, their oysters are being served. He smiles. “Oh, never mind, my dear.”


	4. Camp (537 A.D.)

The only warning Aziraphale gets is the sound of a twig snapping underfoot, before he hears Crowley’s drawl: “Why are you all alone out here? Thought you’d still be spreading peace with your new _friends_.”

Aziraphale looks up to see Crowley, standing a little distance away from his fire, looking like he’s trying his damned hardest to appear aloof. He isn’t wearing that ridiculous armour anymore, thank goodness. But, Aziraphale notices that Crowley’s black tunic looks rather thin against the damp, chill night. Even though he is well-covered with a thick cloak, Aziraphale can’t help but shiver a little in sympathy.

“Well, if you must know, they do go _on_ a bit,” he replies. He suppress a wince at how haughty he sounds. Their earlier spat still feels too fresh. The nerve of Crowley, to talk about their… _affairs_ in front of humans. Not that they technically _have_ any, but honestly. What an utterly foolish, thoughtless prospect, the very idea—

Crowley’s chuckle brings Aziraphale up short. “Peace not all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Now, I didn’t say that.”

“What _are_ you saying, then?”

“Their—that the _conversation_ leaves a lot to be desired.” Aziraphale only just stops himself from continuing. After all, he can’t just say that any conversation with Crowley is his major point of comparison. Because… because…

There is the very distinct sound of teeth chattering, before Crowley clamps his mouth shut. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Must you be so stubborn? Do stop dithering and come closer to the fire.”

Crowley does, but not before muttering something that sounds like a petulant, “ _You_ dither.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch that, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale says dryly. Quite suddenly, he’s finding it absurdly difficult to not think about draping his cloak around Crowley’s shoulders.

“S’nothing.”

“My goodness, how spooky. I could have sworn I heard—perhaps it’s a very surly ghost.”

“Oi, angel—”

“Ah, I have it! It must be that dastardly Black Knight _fomenting dissent and discord_.”

“Shut it!”

But, Crowley is laughing through his words, as if in delighted surprise, and Aziraphale feels very warm indeed. He doesn’t think he can blame it solely on the fire.


	5. Grass (2009)

Crowley does not notice just how deep in thought he is until he hears a very flummoxed voice from above: “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

Crowley laughs darkly. “Oh, nothing at all, if that’s how you’re putting it.” He doesn’t bother to look up properly, but he does see one tightly-laced brogue tap impatiently. “Can I help you?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Not once have I ever seen you let people get anywhere near our bench. And now, there’s—” His voice drops to a scandalised whisper. “A couple _sitting_ on it!”

“Maybe I fancied a change of scenery.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrow raise is audible. “On the ground?”

Crowley shrugs. He expects Aziraphale to, well, not exactly storm off, but certainly give it a good try. But, instead, he hears a not-so-angelic huff before Aziraphale is sitting down next to him. Crowley sighs, and proceeds to resume his current course of action—that is, repeatedly tearing out any clumps of grass within reach. He glances across to see Aziraphale staring at him with what could be exasperated concern. Maybe he’s just worried about grass stains.

Crowley listens to the background noise of people enjoying a sunny, perfectly ordinary day in the park. Oh, listen to them— _tug_ —all happy and calm— _tug_ —no idea of the colossal ticking time-bomb—

Aziraphale’s hand reaches out to touch Crowley’s forearm. Crowley stills. He has long since given up on tracking when they slip into eras of casual touches. The one thing he knows is that he has bloody awful timing.

“Is there any particular reason why you’re impersonating a lawnmower?” Aziraphale asks mildly.

Crowley sighs. He lets go of the remaining blades of grass, pulling a face at the dirt under his nails. He doesn’t have the energy to joke around it anymore. “Just. One year closer to… _it_ ,” he says. “I mean, I know technically every year was but…” He sighs again, and remembers the impossibly heavy weight of a basket. “Now we have confirmation.”

“We also have an agreement,” Aziraphale says, without missing a beat. “Not all that long before we can nudge things along, so to speak. In the… _right_ way.”

Before Crowley can comment on that oh so delicate pause before the word _right_ , Aziraphale is standing, gently but firmly guiding Crowley up with him.

“Besides,” Aziraphale continues. “There’s no point in _both_ of us worrying about it. There has to be a balance.”

“Wasn’t worried,” Crowley says automatically.

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale says. “I fear I’m much better at it than you.” There’s a strangely sad edge to his smile, soon gone like a cloud passing over the sun. “And, of course,” he adds archly, “I am not in danger of destroying the park.”


	6. Pride (1866)

It would have looked odd if he didn’t have any copies—especially a new edition with evocative illustrations. Still, to have it displayed in the front window. Yes, it’s business as usual, but… it feels like a betrayal.

Aziraphale tries not think about it, how the four years of life without Crowley have dragged like centuries; how Crowley would have no doubt laughed himself silly at an angel’s bookshop harbouring _Paradise Lost_. How every illustration is a reminder that one of Aziraphale’s last words to him was a jibe about being Fallen.

Aziraphale knows that humans can barely scratch the surface of the truth. And, yet… there’s an awful lot you can say through the guise of a metaphor.

_How foolish of you, Principality. How conceited, to believe that you could have protected him for all these years._

_You are his greatest danger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration referenced: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hubris#/media/File:Paradise_Lost_12.jpg


	7. Bloom (1601)

The thing is, Crowley remembers Heaven. He remembers the cruel, clinical thing it became, right at the very end (the beginning?). How it was filled with light, but it always felt unreal and cold. Sterile. No room for anything to grow.

He remembers Eden. He remembers the shock at meeting Aziraphale, an angel already going off-script because, deep down, he simply _wanted_ to. There was a flame of _something_ there, a passion that Crowley was amazed to find even existed in the first place. Didn’t Heaven snuff those things out? Divine orders left no room for emotion.

And yet…

And yet, here was an angel, who loved the Earth with such fierce intensity.

Now, Crowley is no longer surprised. He supposes it’s like anything else: the right environment can only encourage things to flourish.

When they’re at the Globe, Crowley hardly ever watches the actors. He watches Aziraphale watch everyone else, eyes wide, always the one to start the thunderous applause. During final bows, Crowley nudges Aziraphale with his hip.

He asks it every time. “So, what did you think, angel?”

And, Aziraphale beams, like a flower, tilting up towards the sun.


	8. Sunset (1793)

It is, of course, quite miraculous that they are able to have crepes at all. They sit for hours outside a charming café, chatting and drinking wine, like the fighting does not exist. There is a part of Aziraphale that doesn’t find it all that unusual. He can never admit it, but this is simply how the world almost always feels whenever he’s with Crowley: a brief little bubble of serenity.

Crowley whistles suddenly. “Would you look at—oh, angel, you’re not getting the view.” He beckons eagerly.

Wine-drunk and content, Aziraphale just about manages to move his seat without sending the cutlery flying. He settles next to Crowley expectantly.

 _“Look!”_ Crowley gestures with excitement, as if Aziraphale has never seen the sun set before.

“I do believe it’s my turn to be the sober one,” Aziraphale says coyly. Crowley treads on his foot, but it doesn’t hurt in the slightest. “Yes, my dear, I can see it. It’s lovely.”

“D’you know,” Crowley leans in even closer, “when the sky gets… um, all like _this_ , humans say it’s Paradise.”

“We’ve already seen that,” Aziraphale points out.

Crowley lets out a tipsy, unrestrained laugh. “Nah,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate. He smiles, slow and sweet, like he’s guarding a wonderful secret.

Well. That’s alright. Aziraphale is currently guarding one of his very own.

Crowley’s hair is lit up by the light, blending in beautifully with the sky: the fading reds, ambers, and pinks. It would be a glorious painting. And, although Aziraphale can’t say it out loud, he cherishes the thought, smiling behind his wine glass: that Crowley looks more beautiful than any sunset.


	9. Freckles (1659 B.C.)

Aziraphale has been eyeing the painted limestone so damned wistfully for the whole afternoon. It’s surprisingly impressive, how the angel is so obviously radiating envy.

“Oh, go _on_ ,” Crawly eventually says.

Aziraphale starts. “What?”

Crawly rolls his eyes, but soon takes pity on him. He gestures towards the leftover bowls of paint. The mural is half-finished, but the humans will be long gone until tomorrow. “You’ve been ogling them all day,” Crawly says, edging into sing-song.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort.” But, in the next breath, Aziraphale immediately admits, “And even—even if I _had_ —which I wasn’t!—angels can’t indulge in… human frivolities.”

Not for the first time, Crawly wonders if Heaven has masterclasses on pouting, or if Aziraphale is just a natural.

“What bore told you that?” he scoffs. “Sounds like they’ve got a right stick up their arse.”

“Crawly!” Aziraphale gasps. But, he doesn’t attempt to hide his laughter in the slightest.

Emboldened by the sound, Crawly grins. He remembers that somehow, unbelievably, this is an angel who wants to have _fun_. He darts down to the bowls, and dips his fingers into the paint. Waits one beat, until he sees a glimmer of a smirk in Aziraphale’s expression, like he already knows what is about to happen, but is feigning ignorance.

With a quick flick of Crawly’s fingers, yellow ochre flies into the air. It lands on Aziraphale’s cheeks and nose, like a smattering of freckles. He looks ridiculous. (He looks wonderful).

“Oh, _dear_ ,” Crawly says, pitching his voice up into Aziraphale’s register. “Well, now you’re already covered in paint. Seems a shame to just—”

Aziraphale has already retaliated with his own deft flick of paint. “Indeed, you wicked thing,” he says.

From the angel’s smug grin, Crawly knows they are now sporting matching paint freckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly earlier post as my fic for the good omens mini bang comes out later today! <3


	10. Sweat (3003 B.C.)

The Flood has dried up, the promised rainbow evaporating with it. Even though Aziraphale has proof that life has survived, the landscape still feels barren. The sun is fierce, and relentlessly beats down on his back.

Slithering towards him is a very familiar snake. The demon Crawly transforms into his human form silently, with no witty quips about lead balloons. Aziraphale can’t help but notice that, this time, he doesn’t even have a sword to give away. He has nothing to offer, no way to help.

_So, serpent, is this how we’re doomed to meet_ , he thinks, with a wave of bitterness, _always after the world has ended? Are we just to watch?_

Crawly jerks his head, and starts walking. “Come on, angel,” he says quietly.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. He doubts he even has the energy to reply.

He follows Crawly to a river. Crawly stops at the bank’s edge. He gestures towards Aziraphale’s tunic. “Can I…?”

Aziraphale sniffs. “Do as you wish.”

Crawly raises an eyebrow, gives a searching look. “That’s not an answer.”

Aziraphale meets his gaze. He sniffs. Nods. Clears his throat. “Yes.”

Crawly steps forward, and whisks Aziraphale’s tunic off. He shakes it out, then gracefully drapes the fabric over his forearm.

Aziraphale just stands there. Even though the air is dry, he is quite obviously shivering, gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering.

“Aziraphale,” Crawly says, and Lord, how can a demon sound so gentle? So patient? “Go on. You’ll feel better.” His hand reaches out tentatively, and squeezes Aziraphale’s bare shoulder. He doesn’t recoil in disgust at how the skin is clammy with sweat. He doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he moves a little closer into Aziraphale’s space.

Suddenly, Aziraphale stops shaking. He takes a few shallow breaths, then steps into the water until it’s up to his chest.

Behind him, he hears Crowley call out something. Aziraphale doesn’t register what he is saying—that is, until he unquestionably hears the word ‘flood.’ Something clenches in his chest, and he quickly dives under the surface, until all he can hear is the roar of water shutting out the world. But, even with miracles, he can only hold his breath for so long. He emerges with a shaky gasp.

Crawly calls again. This time, his words are unavoidable: “Angel, I don’t blame you.”

Aziraphale inhales. Exhales. Puts a hand over his mouth.

The next time he submerges into the water, it is so Crawly cannot see him cry.

Eventually, he returns to dry land. He feels undeniably drained, but his chest is no longer tight with despair. Crawly is nowhere to be seen. Aziraphale’s tunic is folded into a neat little square on the ground. Aziraphale picks it up. It smells fresh and clean.

Slowly, reverently, he puts the tunic back on. He breathes deeply, and whispers a _thank you_ into the air.


	11. Festival (1941)

“Queen’s is gone,” Aziraphale says, apropos of nothing.

Crowley feels, yet again, like he’s missed a step somewhere. “…Sorry?”

Aziraphale tuts. Even though they have spent far too long apart, Crowley still recognises the sound to mean: _Come on, dear boy, do keep up_. “You know, at Langham Place.”

 _Oh, you look far too sad_ , Crowley thinks. Out loud, he manages, “Do I have to rescue any books from there?” with an honest attempt at a roguish grin.

Aziraphale gives him a wounded look over the top of his glass. “No,” he says, more to the whisky than anything else. Then, clearer: “S’where the… where they hold the promenade concerts.”

“Oh!” Crowley says in realisation. “The proms.”

“The _promenade concerts_ ,” Aziraphale insists. He abruptly polishes off the rest of his drink. And, before Crowley can save him from the brink of maudlin territory, he talks himself right over the edge. “I was at the very first one. Goodness, that must have been…1895. I waited for you, did you know? Thought you might show… you and your—” He breaks off to laugh tremulously. “—Damned curiosity for new things.”

 _I’m sorry_ , Crowley thinks, with a pang of guilt. _I’m here now. I’ll not leave you again_ , _I swear it._

He pushes his own glass away. “Reckon I’ve had enough to drink,” he says, doing his best to sound light-hearted.

Aziraphale sets his glass down, face colouring slightly. “Quite right, quite right.”

Outside, the sirens drone. Crowley leans forward in his armchair, hopes the movement somehow tells Aziraphale: _All of this won’t last forever_. “There’ll be other concerts,” he says gently.

Eventually, Aziraphale smiles, as if the words take a little extra time to reach him. “Oh, I _do_ hope so,” he replies. He sounds so sincere, so heartfelt, that it suddenly seems like he isn’t talking about concerts at all.


	12. Snooze (1020)

Aziraphale sighs, and perches gingerly on the bed. “You worry me.”

Crowley makes a little noise of protest, half-heartedly propping himself up with his elbow. Aziraphale supposes it’s fair enough for Crowley to complain—after all, they rarely say anything outright, and certainly not as baldly as Aziraphale has just done.

But, sometimes, needs must.

“That is, I worry _for_ you,” Aziraphale corrects. Then, faintly: “Heaven knows someone has to.”

Crowley looks up with over-acted dubiousness. “Thought the whole point was they _won’t_ know.”

“Figure of speech,” Aziraphale chides, with no heat in it. “They shan’t know a thing.”

The Arrangement is barely a few months old, but it hasn’t been properly enacted yet. Up until tonight, Aziraphale had naively hoped—pretended to hope—that it could be a silently understood thing; there in the background, but always a last resort. But then, he had found Crowley trying and failing to procure a room at an inn. He looked far too pale for comfort.

“M’behind on temptations,” Crowley had explained with a tired shrug.

“Right,” was all Aziraphale said, and swiftly harried the innkeeper until a room was miraculously free.

Now, there is thankfully a little colour back in Crowley’s cheeks. But, he is quite obviously exhausted, his arm shaking slightly in an effort to remain upright.

“Oh, do lie down properly, my dear.”

“Mmm, but need… show you how to—how to…” Crowley trails off with a yawn. His eyes close, but he presses a knuckle to the bridge of his nose harshly, like he’s forcing himself to wake up.

Something in Aziraphale’s chest twinges at the sight. Before he can dwell on it, he quickly guides Crowley’s hand down to rest on the pillow. “Well, never mind that now,” he says, aiming for brisk, but keeping his voice hushed. “I’m sure I can manage some infernal paperwork. It must be relatively intuitive.”

Crowley’s laugh ends with a sleepy exhale. “Not f’r ’n angel.”

Aziraphale should possibly be more scared by those words. Yet, all he is truly concerned about is what could have happened if they hadn’t stumbled across each other. And, after all, he reasons. No sense in having an Arrangement in theory but not in practice.

With the quietest click of the fingers, a demon drifting into sleep is gifted pleasant dreams.

“Perhaps I’ll surprise you,” Aziraphale murmurs.


	13. Lavender (1951)

It’s such a small thing, really.

They are in the bookshop, Aziraphale sounding off with some far from merciful put-downs for the day’s unfortunate customers. Crowley is laughing, stretching out, his legs hooked over the arm of the couch. He doesn’t notice that one of his socks has slipped down to reveal a glimpse of his sole.

That is, until Aziraphale inhales too quickly. He crosses over to the couch, hands hovering, a portrait of hesitancy. “Oh, Crowley.” He sounds like the wind has been knocked out of him. “You… you never told me they scarred.”

“Ahh, well,” Crowley tries. His voice is a weak croak, and it’s all wrong, it’s too casual, but what else is he meant to say? That the ten years have felt like nothing? Like everything? That even if he could have healed the scars, keeping them as a reminder—proof that they will always meet again—might have been the greatest temptation?

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it again. Crowley thinks about forcing a laugh, abruptly moving the night on; travelling through varying threads of conversation, anything, so they never have to dwell on things that are too heavy, or say too much.

But, Aziraphale speaks. “I should have—done something more, for you,” he murmurs, half to himself. Then, his voice raises in volume, turns imploring. “Would you… let me do something now?”

Crowley waits. Swallows. “Yes.” _Anything you want_.

Aziraphale nods, and drifts over to his desk. There’s a little clink of glass, and then he returns, holding a vial. He sits on the arm of the couch, next to Crowley’s feet. He opens the vial, tips the contents into his palms. The room smells of lavender.

“You anointing me, angel?” Crowley asks, partly a joke, partly something else.

He is rewarded with Aziraphale’s small, tender smile. “Hush, my dear,” he says.

Aziraphale’s fingers warm the oil. He is gentle, working his way up to Crowley’s ankle bone with a reassuring touch. It says, _We can have this, for tonight. I am here._

Crowley breathes in deeply, something far deeper than his scars being soothed.


	14. Lightning (4004 B.C.)

As the angel Aziraphale watches the earth’s first storm, he finds that he never wants it to end.

It’s the excuse, you see. Heaven knows when—well. He hardly thinks he can afford to shelter a demon if the circumstances were not… as they are. Perhaps it’s a foolish a thing to do, a trick, even, but he somehow does not think so. This is his second case of intuition, after giving away his sword. Is that faith?

Lightning splits the sky, illuminating everything for a moment. The demon Crawly grins, another flash of white. Aziraphale privately does not believe it is fair to label it as wicked.

“That was _something_ , wasn’t it, angel?” Crawly whispers.

Aziraphale thinks what _is_ quite something is that a demon can sound honestly awestruck.

The thing is, Aziraphale does not yet know what marvellously apt expressions humans will create. He does not yet know that this meeting is the world’s first _coup de foudre_ (he will never quite get the hang of French). He does not yet know that humans say lightning never strikes twice.

But, for this angel and demon, it will strike again, and again, and again.


	15. Relax (2019)

Crowley takes another swig from the bottle of wine. It had somehow felt like too much effort to miracle up some glasses. And, besides, it adds to the whole charmingly delinquent nature of it: two rebels—with or without a cause?—drinking on a bench. While the sun has set, warmth still clings to the air, as if the earth doesn’t want to say goodbye to the idyllic summer night.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, “why… why d’you think they haven’t come after us yet?” Thankfully, the wine makes the question sound far calmer than it really is.

Aziraphale raises one shoulder in a small shrug. It’s a bizarre thought, but this might be the most casual Crowley has ever seen him.

“Haven’t the faintest,” Aziraphale answers. “Though, I must say, I do appreciate it. Gives us time to—well.” He gestures around them, vaguely. “Relax.”

Crowley snorts. “Oh. ‘Course.”

And then, he’s suddenly laughing in earnest. Aziraphale soon joins him. The sound is dazzling. Crowley honestly doesn’t know what they’re laughing for. Feels good, though. Like a taught elastic band finally loosening without breaking.

“Was the first thing I thought, after avoiding that whole shitshow,” Crowley gets out, wiping his eyes. “Glad we have some time off before _more_ certain doom.” The way he says it is all light and glib. But, even wine can’t mask the slight tremor of fear.

Aziraphale tuts. “Not _certain_ doom,” he says firmly. He sighs, looking up with a distant kind of consideration. It’s no longer a hasty, nervous glance. “You know, I suppose it’s strange, but… this may be the most relaxed I’ve ever been.”

There’s a pause. It’s a subtle little thing, but Aziraphale’s body seems to tilt towards Crowley, like a gentle sway in the wind. “Actually, I don’t believe it is all that strange,” Aziraphale says. His smile is warm, eyes twinkling. “After all, you are here with me.”


	16. Garden (2019)

It does not truly sink in until Crowley says, “Time to leave the garden.”

They walk down the gravel path, side by side, close enough to touch. Aziraphale thinks about all the times they have had conversations here; having to end them with clever timing, walking away in opposite directions.

He remembers a visit to Kew Gardens in 1840, when it was first opened to the public. How Crowley had wondered why Aziraphale was marvelling at the plants when it surely was a pale imitation of Eden. Out loud, Aziraphale had merely hummed pensively, but inside had thought, _No, that’s not it at all_. And, oh, how very afraid he was to say the truth: that, in the end, he was relieved to have been forced to leave Eden. If he had never left, perhaps he would never have spoken with Crowley at all. He would never have had this, all these years of shared history.

As they near the park exit, the back of Aziraphale’s hand brushes and lingers against Crowley’s wrist. Crowley silently leans into the touch, his fingers slowly curling around Aziraphale’s.

Feeling a touch light-headed, Aziraphale whispers, “We’ve left.”

What a joy it is, to see Crowley smile as brightly as _that_. “What are you on about?”

Aziraphale moves until they are holding hands properly. And, just like that, it is like every division they have been forced to build crumbles into dust, as if this is where they were destined to be all along. It feels like he is walking away from a walled gate, and he never needs to look back.

“We’ve _left_ ,” Aziraphale breathes, and reaches up, and kisses Crowley soundly.


	17. Road trip (2008)

Crowley is woken by two distinct clunks: the Bentley’s passenger door opening and closing. He’s not worried—not about the car, anyway. Save for himself, those doors will only open for one other being on earth.

“’Lo, angel,” Crowley greets. He sidles into the driver’s seat like nothing is amiss.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says distantly. His shirt collar is rumpled. “I was wondering, could you… can we…” His fingers drum on the window. “Could you drive us somewhere?”

 _It’s three in the morning_ , Crowley does not say, _and you hate my driving_. “Anywhere you like,” he says.

Aziraphale nods. Smiles tightly. “Anywhere at all, then.”

Crowley drives and drives until he finds a suitably deserted, long stretch of road near some woods. It feels like they’re the only two souls in the world.

For the very first time, Aziraphale sits in the car without complaint, eerily still. _Do you think about it always?_ Crowley wants to ask. _Are we both pretending in front of each other?_

Aziraphale’s hand reaches across, and covers Crowley’s hand on the gearstick. “Faster, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers. His eyes are fixed straight ahead. “Faster.”

Something darts into view of the ghostly headlights. Aziraphale gasps. Crowley has a split second to realise it’s a deer, before he swerves and brakes. He gets out of the car, looks just in time to see the deer galloping to the other side of the woods.

When he gets back in the car, Aziraphale is breathing heavily. “S’alright,” Crowley reassures. “We just gave it a bit of a fright.”

“Oh, G—” Aziraphale cuts himself off, his hands covering his mouth. “Oh, that was close.”

“I stopped it,” Crowley says. “Put on the brakes in time.”

Aziraphale’s hands fall. He smiles again, but it’s a melancholy thing. “I wish…”

Crowley sighs, and starts the engine. They can’t stay here forever. “I know.”


	18. Berries (1800)

‘Toasting’ the bookshop’s opening has long since passed. In fact, Aziraphale believes this now resembles more a celebration of his drinks cabinet, if anything.

Crowley has carelessly thrown his glasses off to squint at a faded label. “Where’s this one from then?”

“Well, let’s see…” Aziraphale peers at the bottle. “Goodness, I think it’s cordial. Do feel free to try it. Perhaps it’s blackberry and—”

“Ugh, angel!” Crowley has already poured and knocked back a glass. “That tastes _foul_.”

Aziraphale bites his cheek, but isn’t entirely successful in stopping his laughter. He takes the bottle from Crowley’s outstretched hand. “I thought you’d like it. It’s very sweet.”

“I don’t like sweet things,” Crowley says, suddenly pink in the face.

Aziraphale is kind enough not to mention that the box of chocolates is empty, and that is not entirely of his own doing. He clicks his fingers, and the cordial is encouraged to be much more alcoholic than it was previously.

“D’you know what’s _not_ very cordial?” Crowley says. He points towards the bottle as if it has grievously offended him. “Offering me _that_.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Aziraphale says flatly. “My dear fellow, I am dreadfully sorry to have tarnished your view of my exceptional hospitality.”

“I suppose you’ve got to save all that _good will_ for your customers.”

“Now, Crowley, do be sensible. I hardly intend to part with any of these books.”

Crowley chuckles, leaning back in the armchair. There is something in that sight that makes Aziraphale pause. He looks so exquisitely at _home_.

Aziraphale decides then and there that the bookshop is already a roaring success.


	19. Independence (41 A.D.)

Every year that he does not see the angel, Crowley worries. Despite his determination to be optimistic, it is all too easy for doubt to creep in. (Doesn’t it always?)

Perhaps it’ll sting less, to think of that sword being given away as… a glitch in the machine. Isn’t that better, than thinking of _Aziraphale_ himself, bright-eyed and surprising, drawn back into Heaven’s clutches? Crowley scowls. No, that’s not better at all. One view robs the angel of any agency—and really, wasn’t _that_ the miracle all along? The other…

Well. “Best not to speculate”, and all that.

Crowley scowls at the girl behind the bar, mumbles, “Give me a jug of whatever you think is drinkable.”

And then, he hears Aziraphale’s voice.

It takes a stunned moment or two for it to register ( _are you really here?),_ and Crowley snarls back, wondering if the jibe will be the one to burst the little bubble: _go on, might as well drop the act by now. It’s a fluke, all of it. You don’t want my company._

But, instead of turning his back, Aziraphale rambles on about _oysters_ , of all things. “Oh, well, let me _tempt_ you to—”

Crowley covers a wince with a smirk. _Off you go. Say you made a mistake, I won’t tell. Toe the line, like they all do._

Aziraphale just blinks back, with a perceptive little smirk of his own. “Oh, no. No, that's—that's _your_ job, isn't it?” It’s a very affected rigmarole. It says _Don’t you remember? We’re in on the joke, you and I_. It says that Aziraphale very much knows what he’s doing.

Crowley smiles behind his cup. The euphoria of hearing _“I gave it away,”_ returns tenfold, warming his chest. _Oh. Oh, Aziraphale, how could I forget? You’re **remarkable**._


	20. Solstice (447 B.C.)

Crawly leans back onto the sun-baked stones with a sigh of utter contentment. “Can I tell you a secret, angel?”

Aziraphale smiles indulgently. “Oh, don’t you always?” He lies down next to Crawly, and it feels suddenly, as if they’re lying in bed together. What a notion—the wine must have gone to his head.

Crawly cups around his own mouth with his hand, gives a conspiratorial whisper: “It’s the longest day of the year.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Crawly! That’s not a secret.”

“But it is!” Crawly insists. “I tell downstairs that I fit _so_ …” His hands gesture wildly. “ _Ssssso_ many demonic—eh— _things_ in before the sun sets, an’they just take my _word!_ ” He laughs. “This job lark is easy.”

“How awfully clever of you,” Aziraphale says. He tops up their cups of wine with a miracle, before asking, “Will you still be here for Kronia?”

“Hmm.” Crawly stretches. “I’ll try.”

And, oh, blast what They say about a demon’s word, all Aziraphale can think is how earnest Crawly sounds. “Oh, jolly good.” 

“I like what this lot say, y’know.” Crawly’s eyes blink slowly, illuminated pools of gold. A thought drifts across Aziraphale’s mind in a pleasant haze: _Who needs to watch the sun_ _when there is this?_ “About today…,” Crawly continues. “S’the start of a new year.”

Aziraphale turns on his side until he’s facing Crawly properly. He only makes a little hum of encouragement. He doesn’t want to interrupt. He has the strangest feeling that he’s standing on the brink of something.

“I like that idea, sometimes.” Crawly’s voice drops to a murmur. “Second chances.”

Aziraphale frowns slightly. The day is too hot and languid for this kind of thinking, but he must try. “What would you need a second chance for?” he blurts out, and then the answer comes far too quickly, far too late, ice creeping into his chest. “Oh, my dear, I do beg your—”

And Crawly is suddenly leaning right over him with wide, desperate eyes. “Do _you_ think I need a second chance?”

“Why—I don’t—I…” _Oh, just this once, do not waste your time deliberating._ Aziraphale hastens to sit up, and looks directly into Crawly’s eyes. “I like you just as you are.”

He hardly has time to register the warm lips grazing his cheek, because Crawly pulls back in the blink of an eye.

“Sorry—I’m—” Crawly shrugs, but Aziraphale can see that he’s breathing just a touch too quickly. “Doesn’t need to mean anything. Just ‘cause it’s—it’s a new year.”

Yes. Perhaps it doesn’t need to mean anything at all. But, they are alone, and the sun is glorious, and Aziraphale’s heart is suddenly overflowing with affection. If it does mean something, if it actually _very much_ means something, then no-one else needs to know.

Aziraphale moves forward. “Second chances,” he whispers, and kisses Crawly’s warm, sweet-with-wine lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you saw the first version I had up for like 5 seconds, I must've got overexcited at writing a kiss scene (!!!), and forgot when Crowley's name change was lol


	21. Trail (1793)

Every few steps or so, Crowley notices Aziraphale rubbing at his wrists. He is seized by the desire to soothe them, but there’s not much he can do without making it obvious; especially when he’s already making sure the streets are conveniently peaceful.

“Oh, I simply must ask,” Aziraphale says, “how did you find me?”

“Eh…well—” Crowley dodges the truth, that it is always a shaky mixture of panic, hope, and bloody-minded determination. “Simple, really. Just followed your trail.”

“Ah, I see.” The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth curls upwards, a silent _I’m humouring you_. “You make it sound as if I’ve been leaving breadcrumbs.”

“That would’ve been easier,” Crowley concedes. “Maybe do that next time.”

Aziraphale laughs. “I hope you’re not implying that I’ll be locked up again.”

“I never know with you, angel.” Crowley doesn’t bother to filter the fondness out of his voice. “You’re always one for surprises. Oh, we’ll take another left soon.”

“Lead the way.” Aziraphale steps closer, and before Crowley can so much as blink, they are suddenly walking arm in arm. Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s forearm briefly, before saying confidentially, “I believe you leave traces, too. Of a sort.”

“Hmm, I’ve heard of that.” Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Thought that was just a rumour—angels smelling evil?”

Aziraphale laughs again, and shakes his head. “No, no, it’s—nothing I can put my finger on, so to speak.”

“No breadcrumbs?”

“No.” Aziraphale’s smile turns more contemplative. “Perhaps trace is the wrong word. It’s more like…”

He trails off, and Crowley slows his walking pace, giving Aziraphale time to think.

“I suppose it’s like… well, you’ve always _been_ here, haven’t you? That’s how the world has—well, continued, with the two of us. You don’t really _distinguish_ something if it’s always… So, it’s more a… something I would feel, if it ever wasn’t there anymore. Oh, dear, I’m afraid that sounds rather incoherent.” Aziraphale tilts his head with another mirthful smile, and it’s only then that Crowley realises he has stopped walking entirely. “Come, Crowley, we’ll never get to lunch at this rate! And, a left here, didn’t you say?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> research tells me that Hansel and Gretel wasn't around until the 1800s _but_ the breadcrumbs part might've been around since at least 1697. so either Aziraphale has picked up on that and/or he's a literary genius ;)


	22. Melting (1966)

Aziraphale distantly recognises that it is a good thing he is still so furious; otherwise, he would just be shaking out of fear alone.

“ _You_ ,” he seethes, pointing a finger at Crowley, “of all the idiotic, senseless—”

“A-alright, alright,” Crowley snaps. “You’ve m-made your p-point.” He’s gasping out the words, but it’s impressive he’s able to speak fully, drenched as he is with (thank God) perfectly unholy water.

Aziraphale picks his way through the stunned youths lying in unconscious heaps, the ground littered with discarded bottles of drink, and one cracked Ouija board. Thankfully this section of the cemetery isn’t consecrated—he doesn’t think he can deal with two threats in one night.

Crowley follows a few steps behind. There is a painfully awkward silence, until Crowley gives the world’s weakest attempt at sounding offhand: “Good thing it wasn’t holy water, then.”

Aziraphale rounds on him, nettled. “Well, of course it wasn’t. I changed it all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale can see Crowley shivering as he walks.

More silence.

“Might’ve warmed it up a bit, eh?”

“Oh, forgive me for not considering the _temperature_ ,” Aziraphale spits acerbically. “I’ll be sure to transform it into a _bubble bath_ next time.”

Crowley does not reply. Aziraphale’s clenched fists loosen until he is absent-mindedly wringing his hands. “What on earth were you thinking of, Crowley?” he asks, all fury drained, leaving only frayed anxiety.

Crowley steps closer, matching Aziraphale’s stride. Sighs. “I’m sorry. Didn’t think it through. Thought I could just…” He gestures at his eyes, free from glasses. “Just scare them a bit, nick some water off them. Didn’t expect them to throw the whole blessed lot.”

 _Not blessed_ , Aziraphale thinks, a chill prayer.

“Good thing you knocked them all out, really,” Crowley continues. “Dunno what sort of show they were expecting.”

“For you to melt, I suspect.”

“Ugh.” Crowley scoffs in disdain. “I’m no wicked witch of the West.”

Aziraphale laughs, he can’t help it. But, suddenly, he also feels dangerously close to tears. He blinks the feeling back with another laugh. “Oh, stop being so funny. You make it quite impossible to remain angry with you.”

Crowley’s smile is small but genuine. He shivers again, shoulders hunching.

They walk on in a silence that has thawed a little, at least. Aziraphale subtly miracles Crowley warm and dry bit by bit, just so the change is not too much of a shock. He already knows that he cannot beg Crowley not to do such a thing again; knows for certain that Crowley will not promise anything of the sort.

In his heart, Aziraphale feels a lingering unease that has nothing to do with walking past gravestones.


	23. Firefly (1842)

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade,

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

— _Tennyson, Locksley Hall_

Crowley finds it when he shouldn’t strictly be looking at all. (Ah, isn’t that always the way?) He sidles into the bookshop—a harried Aziraphale can only give him a glance of recognition before saving a Hamlet folio from being sold.

The book is propped open on Aziraphale’s desk, a volume of poetry. As if disturbed by a non-existent breeze, the edge of a page curls up until it’s been turned over entirely.

In that moment, Crowley notices it, a little question mark annotated next to a description of a star cluster. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a tiny innocuous thing. After all, it’s only a question.

Crowley’s fingers follow the curve of the symbol, lingering on the page. It can tell him quite a bit, all at once: that the quill must have softened in the ink, leaving Aziraphale’s handwriting looking much scruffier than his usual standards. And yet… here it remains. Aziraphale kept it, even though he could have easily vanished it all with a miracle.

Crowley also suspects from the writing’s slant that Aziraphale was hunched over at his desk, can picture it, clear as crystal. But, none of that tells him what it means. That’s the trouble with a question. It can cover so much—too much—ground.

Longing for something lost surges in him, but he bats it away. He reads the lines again, and takes his time. _Not how I would have worded it_. But, how can anyone put a name to something like that, to the creation of…

_Does this mean you know, angel? Have you always known, or did you figure it out, piece by piece? You’re too damned clever for your own good._

Crowley could have shown him so many things, back then. The way the stars came alive in his hands, how they danced in his hair, sparks of silver and gold. He was capable of so much. _Do you want me to be that, still?_

Crowley tries to lift his hand away from the page, but it hovers close. The temptation grows. _You can answer him. Carve it in, a vow of ink: One day, I’ll take you there._

He hears the front door being bolted shut. Aziraphale calls, “I’ll only be a moment!”

Crowley closes his eyes for a moment, allows himself one last touch of the page. Then, he closes the book.


	24. Petrichor (2019)

The rain is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. It’s as if a gossamer curtain has been draped around the world, slightly muffling everything. People are leaving the park in dribs and drabs, some using picnic blankets as makeshift hoods.

Aziraphale places a hand on Crowley’s knee. “We don’t have to leave just yet. I know you like it when it gets like this.”

Crowley blinks. “How’d you know?”

Aziraphale considers. “You get… well, I suppose it’s just a little intuition of mine.”

“Mm. You’re rather good at those, angel.”

“You just… seem peaceful.” Aziraphale smiles. “It’s a good look on you, you know.”

Crowley breathes in deeply. “I like the smell.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s smile grows. “I did wonder. Yes, it is quite pleasant. Earthy.”

Crowley hums in agreement. The branches of a nearby tree suddenly have the good sense to rearrange themselves, providing a perfect shelter from the rain. Aziraphale listens to the water pattering against the leaves, a gentle timpani.

Crowley yawns, hand languidly reaching up to cover his mouth, a moment too late. “This reminds me, sometimes,” he says, drowsiness softening his voice, “Of… the beginning.”

In the distance, Aziraphale hears faint laughter. He glances up, spots two girls running to the park exit. One carries an umbrella, but seems entirely focussed on sheltering the other rather than herself. Aziraphale feels all at once that both everything and nothing at all has changed.

Crowley tilts closer, his head coming to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. His breaths are deep and slow, the warm air brushing against Aziraphale’s neck. And, Aziraphale is struck by the thought that perhaps he hasn’t ever seen Crowley be so still, so serene. It takes some getting used to, that their time is finally—infinitely—theirs alone.

As Aziraphale gently strokes Crowley’s hair, he thinks of the beginning. He imagines being able to reach out a hand across all of time itself. He would have told himself that, in the end, it was all absurdly simple. _Just stand by him_.

Crowley makes a small wordless noise. His eyes are closing, and he leans into Aziraphale’s touch. “If you keep that up, m’going to fall asleep,” he whispers.

Aziraphale smiles, and plants a kiss onto Crowley’s head. “Rest, my dear. You can have all the time you wish.”


	25. Ice (150 A.D.)

He must be in Hell. He doesn’t know how, but he must be; back when everything wasn’t quite shaped yet. The air, so hot and dry that you feared breathing it in, in case everything you _were_ would evaporate with it.

He falls, lands on scorching hot sand. Feels it, harsh and stinging against his lips. Can’t find any energy, any moisture left to swallow. _Dust you shall eat_. Feels abruptly torn between laughing and crying. In the end, he is incapable of doing either. Can only breathe in arid air.

White cloth in his vision. Crowley blinks. Now he understands, oh, he understands why humans, at the very brink of desperation, hallucinate water. Because, suddenly, Aziraphale is here, crouching in front of him. At first, Crowley’s heart lightens. But, when the mirage doesn’t fade away, he balks.

Aziraphale. Not fallen. Will be, soon, if he stays. Can’t…

“You can’t be here,” Crowley says, aiming for urgency, but he can only manage a feeble slur.

But, Aziraphale just moves closer still. “Oh, Crowley, how long have you been out here?” His hand reaches up, and brushes back Crowley’s hair. Crowley has one glorious instant to savour the cool skin against his forehead before Aziraphale’s hand pulls back. “You’re burning.”

_No, I’ve done all that before, angel. Not pretty. You shouldn’t have to look…_

“Nah, can’t be,” Crowley tries to reassure. “Think that already happened.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. His eyes are searching, and Crowley doesn’t know what for, otherwise he’d give it to him. He’d give him anything.

Arms around him. An encouraging whisper: “Come on, up we go.”

What is Aziraphale going to do—march them both straight out of Hell? That’s impossible. It’s never been done before.

“Shh, shh,” Aziraphale says. Oh. Did he say something out loud? “You’re not in Hell.”

And, then… shade. Crowley sways, fingertips grazing a wall.

“Oh—there you are, steady now,” Aziraphale says. His hands are on Crowley’s shoulders. “Slowly does it...”

And, in a blink, Crowley realises he is sitting down on a bed. Aziraphale is kneeling in front of him again. No, he’s not in Hell. This couldn’t ever be Hell.

“Here,” Aziraphale says. He places a shard of ice on Crowley’s wrist. It is miraculously slow at even beginning to melt. “Now, put your other arm out, and place it on… yes, good, just like that. It’ll cool you down quicker.”

As they wait for the ice to melt, Crowley teeters slightly, but Aziraphale is quick to steady him. “Ah—I have you,” he murmurs. “Try and stay upright, there’s a good fellow.”

Crowley focusses on breathing. He could almost say it’s a blessing, really, that each inhale no longer burns.

Awareness creeps in like the slow drip of ice melting into water. Aziraphale must finally catch something in his eyes, because he sighs in obvious relief. “Oh, _there_ you are. Now, you sit tight, and I’ll just…” He clicks his fingers, and reaches forward again, a cup of water in his hands.

Even as Crowley goes to say it, he knows it isn’t funny. But, his head is pounding, and he clings to the hope that at the very least, he can make Aziraphale crack a smile. He nods down at the water. “You’re not going to finish me off with that, are you?”

Aziraphale flinches. Some water spills down his hand, splashing Crowley’s feet. “It’s not—” There’s a sharp glint in his eyes. “Kindly don’t joke about such a thing, Crowley.”

Shame rises in Crowley’s chest. He takes the cup. Drinks desperately, clumsily.

Aziraphale stays kneeling. “You must know, I would never,” he says, gentle and pleading.

Crowley swallows. “I know.”

Aziraphale refills the cup numerous times before he speaks again. “Why ever were you out there in the first place?”

“I was…” Crowley inhales. Complete cognizance is still just out of reach, but… “A job, I think.”

“Did you finish?”

A memory returns in fits and starts. Crowley remembers the seizing, inescapable panic, his mind scrabbling for loopholes, anything. “Can’t kill kids,” he gets out. “Couldn’t— couldn’t think of an excuse, so.” He sighs. “Just kept walking.”

Aziraphale stares at him. He touches Crowley’s forearm, tuts at the heat still radiating from the skin. And then, he is placing more ice on Crowley’s wrist. His hand stays there, just like that. His thumb strokes a soothing rhythm upon Crowley’s pulse-point.

“Say you met me,” Aziraphale says slowly. “I’m sure I can think of something to botch. You’re a formidable adversary, after all.”

Crowley closes his eyes. Shakes his head. What has he done, to deserve this mercy?

“Say you met me,” Aziraphale repeats firmly. He doesn’t move away, his thumb still stroking Crowley’s wrist. The ice does not melt for a very long time.


	26. Dandelion (1906)

Sometimes, there is only so much good sitting in a bookshop can do. When the words no longer provide escape, are only a reminder of what is lost, Aziraphale goes to the park.

When the sun reaches its height, Aziraphale stands by the lake to feel the breeze. He watches the ducks—only that. He deliberately doesn’t look at Crowley’s usual spot by the railings. It’s a nonsense tradition, but… well. A watched pot never boils. Perhaps, so long as Aziraphale keeps it up, Crowley will appear when he isn’t looking for him.

A wisp of white drifts down from the sky. Aziraphale reaches up, and catches it.

_(“Curiosity killed the cat, angel.”_

_“Ah! But, satisfaction brought it back.”)_

Aziraphale opens his hand. There, resting on his palm, is fluff from a dandelion. Quite remarkably, the wind drops, preventing the fragile thing from slipping through his fingers. He turns, looking back. For a flicker of a moment, he dares to hope, before he quells the thought with a shake of the head.

He watches children, playing in the grass. They’re tugging dandelions free with gleeful abandon. They blow on the seeds, dispersing them with squeals of delight. Some are chanting, “One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock…!” The vague remembrance of a myth, of dandelion heads being called clocks floats through his mind.

Aziraphale indulges himself, imagines tearing out a dandelion, and being able to turn back the clock…

If Crowley was here—if he was alone, rather—Aziraphale could see him joining in with the fun, pantomime-checking his watch, pretending to replace it with a dandelion. Oh, Crowley always had a way with children; never talking down to them, always whole-heartedly committing to their games.

Aziraphale remembers the ark from so long ago, when he thought he might drown from grief. And, amongst everything, Crowley had somehow brought a sliver of light; had so quietly, so cleverly, brought aboard a little group of children. How it hurt, so deeply, to feign ignorance.

And yet, in the darkest hours of the night, Aziraphale could no longer resist. He watched Crowley guard the children as they slept, watched as Crowley realised he was no longer alone.

Crowley glanced at him, and for a second looked completely unmoored. “Encroaching on your territory, angel?” he whispered.

Aziraphale pretended not to notice how Crowley sounded like he had screamed himself hoarse. “No, not at all,” he replied, thinking of Heaven, already knowing Crowley was doing this far better, far more sincerely than any angel ever could.

As if from very far away, a duck splashes in the water. Aziraphale starts, blinks himself back to the present. The children are still laughing. The sun is still shining. The dandelion head still lies on his palm.

He closes his eyes, and finally gives into the temptation. He imagines Crowley here with him. How he would smile, and try to hide it, as if it isn’t the loveliest thing. He would miracle more dandelions into fluff, no doubt, and bluff that it counted as demonic intervention: _“They’re weeds, alright?”_

Aziraphale opens his eyes. If it is a nonsense tradition, well. No-one is around to see.

He makes the same wish as always. Then, with a heavy sigh, sends the seeds on their way, drifting across the lake, and out of sight.


	27. Marshmallow (2019)

Crowley isn’t entirely sure how he expected Aziraphale to react to a distinct lack of a Hellhound, followed by a further distinct lack of an Antichrist. Regardless, what he certainly didn’t expect was this: for Aziraphale to square his shoulders like he was heading into battle, declare, “Right then,” and leave the Bentley, marching through the grounds, back into the tent.

Crowley watches him go, stunned. “Right, that’s—I’ll just sit here then,” he says to the car. The radio is mercifully silent. Thirty seconds crawl by. “Oh, sod it,” Crowley says, and opens the door.

Just as he’s standing up, he is greeted by a far more impressive sight than that of a Hellhound. Aziraphale is striding back towards him, bearing a platter of buffet food from Warlock’s party.

“Wh—” Crowley laughs in disbelief. “Angel!”

“Well, there’s no need to look so _scandalised_ , Crowley. Really, we should have had our lunch included.” And, Aziraphale sits down with the plate, right there on the gravel. He pats the ground beside him, which Crowley immediately translates into: _Won’t you delay the inevitable crisis with me?_

And, well. Crowley’s had a lot of practice with that.

He sits down. Aziraphale smiles, tilting the plate so that the sweets are nearest Crowley.

“Have a top-hat,” Aziraphale cajoles.

Crowley snorts. “Excuse me?”

Aziraphale blinks, and points at the plate, indicating marshmallows on a chocolate base, topped with multi-coloured smarties. “A _top-hat_ ,” he repeats, as if Crowley is being particularly obtuse.

“Oh, come off it, they are _not_ called that.”

“Why—they _are!_ ”

“Why not just call ‘em marshmallows?”

“Because, Crowley, it’s perfectly logical, they _look_ like—”

“You made that up. You must have—”

“My dear—”

“Sounds like your work all over.”

Aziraphale just giggles, like they haven’t just made the biggest mistake of their lives. “I shall choose to take that as a compliment.”

 _It always is_.

In the end, of course, Crowley takes a marshmallow. He savours the sweetness on his tongue, the brightness of Aziraphale’s smile, and for one impossible moment, believes everything might work out after all.


	28. Swim (295 B.C.)

Aziraphale has the strangest feeling that he’s forgotten something. He steps from the logboat onto the jetty, and tries to shake the thought from his mind. After all, it’s been an unexpectedly pleasant day: what luck that both he and Crawly were assigned to observe the same harbour. And yet, he can’t rid the persistent nagging sensation that something is amiss.

His fingers flutter over to fiddle with his winged ring and—ah. Bare skin. Oh, he knows it’s foolish, complete nonsense, but he’s come to think of it as one of his few constants in time; that while everything else is temporary, this shall remain. A comforting lie.

Yes, he knows it’s foolish. But he can’t stifle his _“Oh,”_ of dismayed realisation.

Crawly looks at him sharply. “You alright, angel?”

And, Aziraphale is astonished to find that he doesn’t need to explain, that somehow Crawly just _knows_. His eyes narrow, immediately looking down at Aziraphale’s bare finger, and then… he’s off, sprinting back to the sea. The sight leaves Aziraphale momentarily speechless.

“Oh, Crawly, leave it,” he belatedly calls.

But, Crawly is already skidding to a halt at the end of the jetty.

Without consciously deciding to, Aziraphale is running after him. “It’s not important!”

In one graceful movement, Crawly throws his shirt off, tosses his hair off his face, and dives into the sea.

It takes Aziraphale ten seconds of hearing the resulting splashes and gasps of Crawly’s repeated diving efforts to confirm that what he has just seen has, in fact, happened. What an unnecessary, foolish predicament the demon has created.

 _Well, if he’s a fool_ , a tiny part of Aziraphale says, _then so are you_.

He closes his eyes, and jumps.

The shock of the cold water is instantaneous. Aziraphale gasps, and can’t stop himself—really, what else is there to say? “It’s _f-fucking f-freezing!_ ”

Crawly, treading water nearby, gives a delighted crow of laughter. “Language, angel!” Then: “Watch out for the eels,” he says, complete with a sly grin, before he dives out of sight.

“The—the what—?”

Later, Aziraphale will deny it, but he lets out a most unholy squeal at the feeling of something tickling the soles of his feet. Crawly emerges from the water… oh, he really is much closer now, isn’t he?

“Oops,” Crawly says, all faux-innocence. “I just meant me.”

For lack of a better retort, Aziraphale splashes him. “Oh, you wicked—let’s get out, this is most—well, most unbecoming for _me_ , at least—all this fuss for some trinket—”

“But, you’ve lost your ring,” Crawly says, as if his course of action was the plainest thing in the world.

“Yes, but…” Aziraphale almost forgets to keep treading water. “It’s not…not…”

At Crawly’s stare, the word ‘important’ dies in his throat. Crawly shakes his head, smiles, and raises a finger out of the water: _one minute_. He dives.

“Well,” Aziraphale says faintly, trying to ignore just how he stunned he feels. “Off you go, then.”

A few seconds later, Crawly emerges… closer still. Wet sand clings to his hair, but he doesn’t seem to care, merely letting out a whoop of victory. And then, Aziraphale notices the flash of gold in his hand.

“Oh, you…!” Aziraphale gasps, elated, and swallows down the too-telling, _You are incredible._

“Here,” Crawly gestures. “I’ll just—”

He slides the ring onto Aziraphale’s finger, without fanfare. And yet, despite the cold of the water, Aziraphale’s face feels very warm indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went through a maze of research figuring out time periods for ancient harbours, so I'm officially handwaving whenever Aziraphale's ring turns up lol-- the energy of this scene is absolutely meant to be the Colin Firth lake scene in Love Actually ;)


	29. Fireworks (1989)

They meet, as always, an hour before the fireworks display. There are only so many times you can use, “I was in the area,” as an excuse, but they keep up the pretence anyway, greeting each other with perfected surprise, raised eyebrows galore. _Fancy seeing you here!_

Aziraphale’s French is as abysmal as ever. Crowley can’t help but smile fondly as he stumbles his way through a phrasebook that is at least decades old. He looks like a completely clueless, completely _human_ tourist.

Crowley is struck by that thought, as they queue for food. He gets a little thrill, imagining themselves from a by-stander’s perspective, thinking _those two must be on their holidays_.

When he hurriedly orders, _“Les crêpes suzette pour mon ange, s'il vous plait,”_ he tells himself it’s just for the part.

While it’s uttered at a breakneck speed, Aziraphale still does what looks like a suspiciously bilingual double-take. “What?” Crowley says, and ignores the flush creeping up his ears.

Aziraphale just shakes his head. He takes the crêpes, calling back something that sounds awfully like, “Mercy buckets.”

Before Crowley can even begin his teasing, Aziraphale beats him to it. “Have I ever accused you of being rather sentimental?”

“Ohhh.” Crowley makes an exaggerated show of mulling it over. “You haven’t dared to yet.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I shan’t then.”

They miraculously find a little corner of their own, away from the crowd, but still with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. Crowley supposes that’s how it’s always been; how they somehow always carve out little pockets of time to watch the world go by.

As fireworks light up the sky, Crowley breathes in the smell of crêpes and gunpowder, and silently wishes for more time. Eventually, the finale beckons, of course it does, and he smiles wistfully. Might as well go out with a bang.

Aziraphale gasps, and grins in the glow of a scarlet Catherine wheel. For one moment, it just might resemble a snake.

 _Oh, go on, then_ , Crowley thinks. _One last show_.

He times the firework to soar above the tower, just because he can’t resist. The image is only meant to last a moment, just cut short enough for humans to doubt that they’ve seen it at all. But, the outline of the snake lingers in the sky, and is soon joined by trails of gold. Wings.

“Are—are you daft?” Crowley asks, tries to laugh around the sudden tightness in his throat. “Not exactly covert.”

“Well,” Aziraphale replies, and his voice is soft, undeniably pleased. “Perhaps I want people to see.”


	30. Stargazing (2019)

Aziraphale has had an awfully long time to fit the pieces together. He has noticed, silently, for so many years, the way Crowley looks up at the stars. He has never dared to put a voice to it. Neither of them have. That’s always been the trouble, really.

But, tonight, upon the roof to the bookshop, Crowley looks particularly adrift, eyes glassy. He is shivering even in the summer night air.

Aziraphale sits down next to him. “Are you alright?”

Crowley sighs. He raises his hand to the sky, tracing a pattern Aziraphale cannot see, the oldest map there has ever been. “I can’t…” Crowley clears his throat. “I can’t remember their names.”

Aziraphale waits.

“Different names than what… they gave…” Crowley gestures down at the city. He sighs again, and looks up once more, as if he is constantly drawn to something he can’t quite reach—can never reach again.

 _Come back. Please,_ Aziraphale thinks. He doesn’t say it. This time isn’t for him.

Crowley exhales a painful little laugh. “All that work,” he says, very quietly. “Felt like everything was just… _there_ , at my fingertips. And now, it—” He swallows. “It doesn’t matter. Never did.”

Aziraphale sits, and thinks, and eventually, he finds the right words, the ones Crowley has always deserved to hear. “Would you like it to?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“That is, would you like it to matter?” Aziraphale clarifies gently.

Crowley stares at him. And, it is suddenly obvious that no-one has ever asked him that, least of all himself. “I…” He laughs again, but the sadness in it has ebbed, just a bit. Enough. “I don’t know,” Crowley finishes, and his voice wavers. “Does—does it matter to you?”

_Oh, darling. You’ve taught me what mattered, what has always mattered, ever since you looked past Heaven’s regalia, and saw **me**._

“I can tell you what I know to be true,” Aziraphale says. He reaches across and places a hand on Crowley’s knee. “I don’t need to look at the stars to know how wonderful you are.”

Crowley stills.

“You don’t need to look at the stars,” Aziraphale continues, “to know how loved you are.”

_You never did._

And, Crowley is no longer looking at the stars. His eyes are fixed on Aziraphale. There are tears on his cheeks. And then, he moves forward. Aziraphale hears a breathless, “I love you,” just before they kiss, and he whispers the words back, against Crowley’s lips.

And, Aziraphale knows it doesn’t matter if every star in every galaxy falls. All that matters is this: that Aziraphale loves him, will go on loving him forever, brighter than any supernova.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [david tennant voice] I don't want to go.
> 
> These have been an absolute joy to write, thank you again for reading! Special thanks to @thetunewillcome on tumblr for an amazing prompt list. I love getting to dip into little moments throughout all their history. <3 I am hopefully planning on a fun (smidgen of angst possibly!) summer based fic in the near future; and I am signed up for the Do it With Style Events BT Tower Telephone Event in September! And looking a little further ahead, looking forward to the Trickety Boo Good Omens Events related things in October, as well as the Earth Birthday related prompts from the Good Omens celebration team (hopefully planning on filling those prompts as part of this series! <3)
> 
> Thanks again (x infinity), this world is such a dream to write for! <3


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